


For Better and For Worse

by ClassyGirlsWearPearls



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cancer, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, with some side Mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 04:49:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5571702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClassyGirlsWearPearls/pseuds/ClassyGirlsWearPearls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has cancer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Better and For Worse

**Author's Note:**

> Quick reminder that I am not a doctor. Most of my information comes from cancer.gov and cancerresearchuk.org.
> 
> I own nothing.
> 
> Currently accepting suggestions for new titles.

John had walked back into the upstairs flat of 221B after an incredibly long walk to the smell of sulphur and flames. He dashed into the kitchen to see Sherlock burning something no longer recognizable as anything other than a block of charred ash that was going to crumble at any second now.  
   
“John!” Sherlock cried. “John, come look! I’ve- what’s the matter?”  
   
Sherlock took in John’s face and immediately turned off the Bunsen burner. He clearly knew something was wrong; they someone had hurt John. That was absolutely unacceptable to him.  
   
“Who did this to you?” Sherlock asked. “Who was it? Where are they?”  
   
“Don’t go hunting this guy down Sherlock; we’re going to need him.” John took a deep breath and said in a voice he barely recognized, “I have prostate cancer.”  
   
John could see Sherlock’s brain whirring as he struggled against his automatic response to delete the unpleasant thing he had just heard and just stared.  
   
“Please say something,” John whispered.  
   
Sherlock shook his head. “I find I don’t have words for this. I suspected something was wrong the last few days but didn't want to pry in an effort to practice respecting your privacy. What are our options?”

_You said “our”. Not “your,” but “our.”_  
   
“I’ve been given an appointment with an oncologist for Friday at 9 to discuss it. Will you be there?”  
   
“Yes, of course I will John. What can I do now? I’m afraid I don’t know what to do in this situation,” Sherlock said, fidgeting. He was lost and now there was the prospect of losing John and that was just utterly unacceptable.  
   
“Nothing, please,” John pleaded. “Just act normally and we can freak out about this once we’ve spoken with the oncologist. Go turn your flames back on, but don’t think that I won’t know if you set something on fire again. I’m going for a shower.” John turned and walked out of the kitchen and into the bathroom. Once he was safely in the shower and under the hot water, he began to shudder. He didn’t let out the body-wracking sobs that he might have let out if he had found out when he was a younger man, before he had joined the Army; instead he shook and managed to stop all but a few tears from leaking out.

  
 

* * *

  
   
That night, Sherlock went to bed when John went to bed.  
   
John hated the coddling, but he tucked himself into his lover’s arms nonetheless.  
  


 

* * *

  
   
Their visit to the oncologist was tense. John would have preferred to walk the two miles to the hospital, but Sherlock was so on edge that being among the masses would have driven him mad. He bounced throughout their ride so much that the cabbie lifted a concerned eyebrow at them in the rearview mirror and John was worried the suspension might give out. When they had checked in and were waiting in the waiting room, John asked Sherlock to whisper his deductions about the other people there quietly to him as a distraction for both of them. Sherlock shook his head, his eyes wild. John touched his back, grounding him like he did when things got to be too much for the detective. Though he was comforting Sherlock, John had to wonder if he was also using the contact to try to comfort himself. He kept his hand there, just over Sherlock’s lumbar vertebrae, as they walked back to the office and only took it off to shake hands with the oncologist and latch onto Sherlock’s hand so tightly that he didn’t know if he was grounding himself or Sherlock at this point.  
   
“Right,” Dr. Miller began. “I’d like to just take a moment to say that we’ve caught this fairly early, which gives us a great advantage. Your cancer is Stage IIA, which is relatively easy to work with. Before we decide on a treatment plan, I’d like to order a few additional tests. I’d like for you to have a full-body bone scan-”  
   
“Bone scan?” Sherlock asked, alarmed. John winced as he felt the grip on his hand tighten.  
   
Dr. Miller nodded. “If it metastasizes, prostate cancer will almost always go for the bones first. If you’re able to do this one today, I can get you in within a half hour after we’re done here.”  
   
“That would be much appreciated,” John smiled grimly. “What else are you ordering?”  
   
“Just the standards,” Dr. Miller replied, looking down at a list on his chart. “MRI, CT, both a biopsy of the seminal vesicle and a pelvic lymphadenectomy to further ensure no metastasis, and a blood test to check your PSA levels. I’ll continue to regularly check your PSA levels to make sure that nothing abnormal is happening with them. Once we get those back, we can tweak our treatment plan and narrow it down so we choose the most effective way of getting rid of this. For the moment, I have a few broader ideas that I’d like to run by both of you.” When neither of them stopped him, the doctor nodded and began listing his treatment plans.  
   
“I usually start most of my patients out with a few courses of external radiation, which we combine with hormone therapy that will decrease the amount of androgen that your body is producing. The majority of the men that I treat respond well to these treatments, and generally we don’t need to move past the initial courses of radiation.”  
   
“What if John doesn’t respond to radiation?” Sherlock asked. John squeezed his hand gently and reassuringly. Again, he wondered if he was reassuring Sherlock or reassuring himself?  
   
“In that case, we would move on to an internal type of radiation. This can either be a long term treatment where we implant a few devices with isotopes that kill cancer cells into your prostate or a short term treatment where we flush the prostate with those isotopes for several minutes a few times over the course of two days through a catheter. If the cancer is still only in your prostate after the initial course of radiation and the tumor hasn’t shrunk as much as we would like it to, then I will consider this our ‘Plan B’, so to speak.  
   
“Our final option, which I only mention because I feel that you should know all possible outcomes, would be either a partial or a radical prostatectomy. If none of the other treatments are effective in getting rid of this, then I’m afraid that this is our best option. Partial or complete removal of the prostate is a life-altering decision, but I am hoping that whatever course of action we take will be effective in getting rid of this so we don’t have to resort to this. There are ways to do this without causing too much permanent damage to the nerves in the prostate that aid sexual pleasure, but if the cancer cells are positioned too close to these nerves, then we are usually forced to remove them.”  
   
Sherlock and the doctor continued talking, but John was no longer with them. The most involvement he had had in treating cancer had been occasionally removing tumors while he was practicing as a surgeon. He wished he had retained more of what he had learned in medical school about prostate cancer, but when he had opted to become a surgeon he was less involved in the courses that would have taught him the more detailed methods of cancer treatment. He was wracking his brain trying to remember something, anything about prostate cancer when he realized that Dr. Miller and Sherlock had both gone quiet and were staring at him. Dr. Miller looked expectant and somewhat resigned, and Sherlock just looked concerned.  
   
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I was off in my head.”  
   
“That’s fine,” Dr. Miller said gently. “I was just asking if you’d like to do the scans today, or if you’d rather wait a few days.”  
   
“No, let’s get them done,” John said stoically. “Best to know what we’re dealing with as early as possible, right?”  
   
“Exactly,” Dr. Miller agreed. He stood but gestured for the two of them to stay seated. “Please stay here and make yourselves comfortable. I’m off to order and schedule the necessary scans. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”  
   
The door shut behind him with a click, and the silence that followed was deafening.  
   
“This isn’t going to be pretty, Sherlock,” John said quietly. “I’ll likely be unable to help you with cases and your experiments.”  
   
“Those are nothing,” Sherlock hissed. “Don’t you dare start saying what I know you’re about to start saying because nothing is as important to me as you are.”  
   
“Your work is essential to you and I wouldn’t want you to give it up for me,” John argued.  
   
“Idiot,” Sherlock muttered. “I made you a promise years ago that if something like this were to happen I would have no qualms dropping the work entirely to care for you. I don’t speak like that if I don’t mean it. Not to you.”  
   
John nodded and bit out a quiet, “Thank you.” He scooted his chair closer to Sherlock’s so he could lean against the taller man’s shoulder. Sherlock wrapped his arm around John and kissed his forehead.  
   
“I’ll see you through this, John,” he promised quietly as he began to stroke John’s temple. They stayed like that until the doctor came back with a few technicians to get John admitted and to prepare him for all of the necessary scans.  
 

 

* * *

  
   
Dr. Miller ordered eight weeks of radiation treatment and hormone therapy after reviewing all of the scans and biopsies he had ordered. He confirmed that the cancer hadn’t metastasized and that it hadn’t progressed past the stage he thought the cancer was at. The night before he was scheduled to start his treatments, John laid back and watched Sherlock ride him. He gripped his hips hard enough to bruise as he thrust his hips up into Sherlock, and in return Sherlock was bent over gripping John’s good shoulder with one hand in a way that was sure to leave a mark. When they came with bitten off shouts and jerky gasps Sherlock folded himself over and placed quick kisses on John’s face and neck until John slipped out of him and they could feel his semen dripping back onto his flaccid cock. Sherlock got up briefly to clean them up, and once finished he tossed the damp cloth over the side of the bed onto a pile of discarded clothes so he could wrap himself around John until their alarm went off in the morning.

 

* * *

  
   
Five days a week for eight weeks. Forty days of radiation and androgen suppressants. John tried to make a joke about how it was fortunate that this was happening around Easter because he had practically made a Lenten sacrifice but the look Sherlock shot him was so grim that he didn’t try again. That and the fact that he could practically feel his devout Anglican mother rolling over in her grave when he said it stopped him from cracking that joke again.  
   
Lestrade kept texting him to check in. Unsure of what to say, John neglected to respond beyond a perfunctory fine, thanks.  
   
He was exhausted. There were only two off-days per week. Early on, John tried to tell himself that he would try to get things done on these days, but he usually just spent those days asleep or trying to keep down light meals. He lost most of his muscle mass and was skinnier than he was when he had first met Sherlock. It was discouraging.  
   
John was thankful for Dr. Miller. The man was incredibly rational and wasn’t put off by Sherlock’s constant questions – in fact, he seemed to encourage it. He listened to the ideas Sherlock had and did what he could to accommodate the changes he thought would be best in John’s treatment. John chafed under the constant attention and handling, but he did his best to accept what they were doing for him.  
   
One night, after a particularly grueling day, John snapped at Sherlock as he brought him tea at the end of the day that was heavy in cream and sugar. He preferred his tea with nothing in it, and if he was going to be given the comfort of tea he should have at least have it the way he wanted.  
   
“You need the calories,” Sherlock had insisted.  
   
“I know I need the fucking calories, but if what I put in me is too heavy then I won’t be able to keep it down and then what’s the fucking point in that?” John sniped. “Just stop fucking coddling me. Everyone is handling me with kid gloves and its driving me mad!” With that, John stood faster than he should have on wobbly legs and marched to the bathroom. When he saw Sherlock move in his direction, he bit out, “Do not fucking follow me. Just let me be alone.”  
   
After slamming the door John sank down with his back against the wall and put his head in his hands. He took deep breaths and tried to calm his stomach, which had been churning even before Sherlock had brought the tea. He was tired of doing nothing but sleep and throw up and just wanted something to be normal. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault, but there was no one else that he could conveniently take his anger out on.  
   
Eventually, the acidity in his stomach became too much and he scrambled over to the toilet to vomit bile. He was dimly aware of Sherlock tentatively opening the door and walking over to him. In a gesture of peace, John held out his hand to Sherlock as he grabbed the toilet bowl with the other hand.  When he had finished, Sherlock held out a glass of water that he must have gotten when he first heard John start to gag; or maybe he just had them around the flat on standby ready for the inevitability of John getting sick.  
   
“I’m sorry,” he gasped after he had finished drinking. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock. You don’t deserve that. You were just trying to help and I was being a tit.”  
   
“I’m just very worried about you, John,” Sherlock admitted quietly. “I rarely feel like this and I’m unsure of how to handle myself. You know I’m not good with this. I did research on what to do but I’ve found that it’s all been flawed.”  
   
“What research?” When Sherlock averted his eyes and neglected to respond, John sighed, “Oh no. You went to internet forums for advice.”  
   
“YouTube also had some information, though those people gave some of the worst advice that I heeded,” Sherlock admitted sheepishly.  
   
“Oh, I love you,” John laughed shakily. “I’m sorry. You’ve been trying to help and I’ve been nothing but a giant cock.”  
   
“I think I can excuse you just this one time, just because you happen to have a giant cock in addition to being a giant cock.” They both let out forced giggles at that.  
   
After a few minutes, John leaned into Sherlock’s side and sighed. “I’m frightened as well, but that doesn’t mean that we aren’t going to get through this.”  
   
“I know that,” Sherlock scoffed, but then his voice turned hesitant and somewhat weak. “But I don’t always know how to handle things like this, so if you could talk to me I would appreciate it.”  
   
John nodded in agreement, and then they sat there until their limbs protested at the tile under them.

  
 

* * *

  
   
Sherlock started staying in bed with John when he was too weak to get up. Neither of them enjoyed this, but they agreed there was nowhere else they should be right then.  
 

* * *

  
   
It was evident from the way Dr. Miller’s mouth was turned down slightly at the corners that things were not progressing as they had hoped. Even John, with his limited deductive powers, could tell that.  
   
It was discouraging. It had been nearly ten weeks since his diagnosis, and two straight months of punishing radiation treatments, and John just wanted it to be done. The hormones he had been taking were sending him on a roller coaster of emotions and he just wanted them to stop already. He had prepared himself for the possibility of a few extra weeks of the hormones and felt that he would be able to handle it because he knew what to expect from that. It would have been easier to handle the hormones without the radiation going along with it and taking such a huge physical toll on his body. He didn’t want to have to start a new course of treatment where he didn’t know how he was going to react physically or emotionally to that on top of the already known side effects from the hormones.  
   
“The good news is that the tumor did shrink,” Dr. Miller encouraged. “Your body is responding to treatments, John. We should be very happy about that. What concerns me is that the tumor shrunk microscopically – more microscopically than I had hoped,” he added sensing that Sherlock was about to interject to say that they were working on a microscopic level to begin with.  
   
“What’s our next step, then?” John asked in a hollow voice.  
   
“I’m going to order a few more scans just to confirm that it hasn’t spread to any other areas, but I’m confident based on the bloodwork that we’ve been doing throughout your treatment that the cancerous cells are still just in your prostate. After reviewing those, we can determine if we can start with the internal type of radiation or if we need to move onto something else. If you two don’t have any questions about this, I’ll go ahead and order those scans.”  
   
John and Sherlock shared a look, and John shook his head. “I think we’re all clear on that. Thank you.”  
   
The doctor nodded before he left his office. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”  
   
After the door had shut behind him, John drew a shaky breath and said, “Do you think that he’s found that the ideal amount of time he should give people after giving uncertain or bad news to themselves is fifteen minutes?”  
   
“It does seem like an unnaturally long time to spend ordering a bit of bloodwork and a few scans. Perhaps he’s masturbating. He didn’t get his morning wank in today,” Sherlock commented.  
   
John snorted. “Jesus, Sherlock. If you’re on edge, fifteen minutes is a long time. I would give the man five at the most.”  
   
The two of them erupted into uncontrollable peals of laughter, and when they had settled John said, “That’s the first time I’ve really laughed since all of this started.”  
   
“We’ve both been a bit glum recently. I think we’ve earned the right to be a bit down,” Sherlock said. He curled up close to John and whispered, “How about we celebrate your tumor shrinking a bit this evening? Only if you have the energy, of course.”  
   
John gave Sherlock a quick kiss and said, “I think that would be acceptable, Mr. Holmes. I feel like I’ve been neglecting you lately.”  
   
Sherlock made a thoughtful humming sound and said, “I think I can excuse you for now.”  
   
“Your benevolence knows no bounds.”  
 

 

* * *

  
   
After another long day of being poked and scanned and having blood drawn, John was ready to get out of the hospital. After looking at the results Dr. Miller declared that he felt comfortable having John proceed with the internal radiation. They opted for the temporary brachytherapy because it would be over in two day rather than drawn out over several months.  
   
They stopped at Angelo’s on the way home, who took one look at John and decided against berating them for not coming in but mercifully said nothing about how ravaged and weak John looked. He set a candle on their table and brought them their favorite dishes. He watched as John picked at his food and ate a third of what he would have normally had; as Sherlock nervously watched John and ate his food quickly as if he were afraid they would have to leave very suddenly. He gave them both extra portions and slide some tiramisu into a bag that he insisted on them taking home with them. He was worried but discreet about his worrying, and both Sherlock and John were thankful that he expressed his concern not through words, but through massive amounts of calorie-laden food.  
   
When they got home, John put the food in the refrigerator and leaned against it in exhaustion for just a moment before straightening up and turning to look at Sherlock with a somewhat feral gaze that was tinged with fatigue. He lunged, and Sherlock caught him with some poise and maneuvered him so he ended up sitting on their kitchen table so he was less strained.  
   
They kissed for several minutes until John broke away panting and glanced down at Sherlock’s crotch. “I have been neglecting you if just this is getting you going. Why don’t we move somewhere else?”  
   
Sherlock nodded and helped John off of the table before they made their way down the hall and into the bedroom. They undressed with haste, not opting for the slow, romantic build that they normally enjoyed. When they stood bare in front of each other, Sherlock was nearly hard but John was completely soft. When he looked down following Sherlock’s questioning gaze, he flapped his hand and said, “I’m just a little tired and the hormones make me a little slow. It’ll wake up in a few minutes. Come here and I’ll show you.” He grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and pulled him to the bed.  
   
They writhed against each other and kissed for several minutes before Sherlock pulled away and stared once again at John’s mostly flaccid penis. “John,” he began, but John cut him off.  
   
“No, Sherlock. I’m fine. I promise. Let’s just keep going. I’ve missed you like this.” John reached between them and tweaked one of Sherlock’s nipples to distract him.  
   
Things didn’t get much better from there. Sherlock rutted against John’s hip and came like a freight train, but John was too exhausted to do much more than lie back and let Sherlock suck him until he managed a small orgasm. They wrapped themselves up in each other after John had finished, and neither of them decided to acknowledge they were both holding back tears of mourning for what they had already started to lose.  
 

 

* * *

  
   
They didn’t try to have sex again in the days before John went in for the next type of radiation. Sherlock still wrapped himself around John when they slept, and John tried to muster the energy to get things done around the flat the way he had before his diagnosis. He usually got through a few things every day, with the occasional break to sit heavily in his armchair or to nap.  
   
Lestrade had started calling in addition to texting. Still unsure of what to say, John let the calls ring through to voicemail.  
   
Sherlock was not allowed to remain in the room while the isotopes were pumped into John’s body, though he was right outside and was allowed to talk to John via a microphone in the next room. John could see Sherlock trying to fight the doctor on this and did his best to head off the inevitable battle between Sherlock’s safety and well-being and his desire to be with John. They did allow him to be there when they fed a needle and then a catheter through John’s perineum. John was glad for the hands to grip onto and the soothing baritone in his ear.  
   
He underwent this procedure three times in two days, and by the end of it Sherlock practically had to carry John into their flat. The space on John’s body that Sherlock loved to rub a thumb roughly against while he was teasing him in bed was swollen from the needles and the radiation. John shuddered thinking about Sherlock doing that now as he tried to find a position that would put the least amount of pressure on that spot.  
   
Sherlock brought him tea without milk and sugar even though he hadn’t asked for it. He helped John to the bathroom when the unfortunate side effects that his bowels might feel did set in, and he sat just outside the door to give John the illusion of privacy he so desperately desired as diarrhea poured out of him every few hours.  
   
In the nights following that treatment, John curled up into Sherlock rather than letting Sherlock wrap himself around John.  
 

 

* * *

  
   
The treatments still weren’t working. Dr. Miller again tried to cheer them up by saying that the tumor was shrinking, just not at the rate that they wanted it to be shrinking at.  
   
“I want to keep you on the hormones for another few weeks, John. I’m also going to recommend that you do another few weeks of the first type of radiation we tried.”  
   
“Why would we do that again if it didn’t work?” Sherlock asked, clearly agitated.  
   
“It wasn’t that it didn’t work, it just didn’t do what we had hoped it would do. I’m hopeful that if we try this radiation again, we can avoid surgery.”  
   
John perked up. “Surgery?”  
   
Dr. Miller nodded. “Your body hasn’t been responding the way I would have hoped it would, and with prostate cancer there is always the chance that it could move very quickly to another part of your body. A prostatectomy, whether partial or radical, is a life-altering move, and I want to make sure we exhaust all other options before we take that step. Unfortunately, I feel that the way your cancer has responded to radiation that if we don’t redouble our efforts with the hormones and radiation treatments or perform surgery, your cancer will progress and spread which will make it harder to treat.”  
   
When the doctor left the room to order scans again to make sure that the cancer was still just in John’s prostate, John and Sherlock didn’t say anything for the fifteen minutes he allotted them. They just sat in their chairs holding hands.

 

* * *

  
   
The increase in radioactive isotopes being focused on John’s prostate and the increase in hormones being administered to him was hellish. He left their bed to go to the hospital and to use the bathroom. He didn’t even have the strength to leave when he needed to throw up – Sherlock was usually there with a wastebasket or a large bowl for him to use. The hormone therapy wreaked havoc on his mood, and when he wasn’t angry or upset he was just numb.  
   
He knew it was scaring Sherlock. If he had been in a better place, he would be scaring himself. John didn’t like that he didn’t have the energy to fight his way out of the funk he was in. It frightened him and it frightened Sherlock, even though neither of them would admit it. Sherlock had dragged his chair into their bedroom from the main part of the flat and did all of his thinking there so he could keep an eye on John. John didn’t really have the strength to get mad at him.  
   
Dr. Miller was obviously worried about him as well, but John was good enough at putting on a brave face when he went in for his treatments and he dodged any questions about his mental well-being whenever the doctor brought it up.  
   
Lestrade’s texts sounded more and more concerned every day. John would pick up his phone and think about responding, but the exhaustion he felt usually overwhelmed him and he slept rather than getting back in touch with his friend.

  
 

* * *

  
   
The person who smacked sense into him was Mycroft.  
   
Sherlock’s brother hadn’t made many appearances since the diagnosis, but John knew that he had most likely been monitoring their situation from his lair within Whitehall. He knew that Mycroft was providing the cars that they had been taking to the hospital, and it was more comforting to think that Sherlock had been in touch with his brother rather than Mycroft’s minions breaking into Dr. Miller’s office to track his treatments and progress like they had done with his therapist so many years ago. John had truthfully not thought about Mycroft for several weeks when he heard the familiar tapping of an umbrella punctuating every other step in the hallway.  
   
Sherlock perked up and scowled when he registered the noise. When his brother opened the door, he didn’t have time to bite out a snarky remark before Mycroft coolly said, “Sherlock. Out.”  
   
Sherlock sputtered and glanced at John, who shrugged and sighed, “Could you make me a cup of tea?”  
   
With a huff and a dirty look at his brother, Sherlock left the room and slammed the door behind him. John curled deeper under the covers and studied Mycroft as he made his way over to Sherlock’s chair and sat down. Without preamble, Mycroft asked, “Has Sherlock ever told you that I only have one testicle?”  
   
John’s eye’s fluttered closed. “No, but God I wish I didn’t know that.”  
   
“I can’t say I wish you knew it either,” Mycroft said primly as he crossed his legs (John’s mouth quirked up at whatever Freudian slip that indicated). “But I think right now it’s important for you to know that about three years before you and Sherlock met, I was diagnosed with testicular cancer. Early stages, mind you – it was localized and hadn’t spread to any surrounding lymph nodes or other parts of my body, but it was aggressive enough that it was growing quickly. After only a few weeks of both radiation and chemotherapy, it became apparent that the tumor was still growing and that my only option to completely eradicate the cancer was surgery.”  
   
“Why are you telling me this?” John asked.  
   
“You’re depressed, which is understandable during cancer treatment, but you don’t seem to be depressed for the usual reasons. Your mortality is not flashing before your eyes. Yes, the treatments are exhausting and often painful, but it’s what may happen after your treatments are over and the cancer is gone is what you’re worried about.” Mycroft glanced down at his nails. “I had the same fear. I knew I wasn’t likely to die from my cancer, though occasionally on particularly awful days during chemotherapy I would beg either my brother or Gregory to just put me out of my misery. It wasn’t until I actually had to go for the orchiectomy that I was faced with my mortality, but that was brief. It was after the surgery that I was most concerned about.”  
   
“I’ve done orchiectomies before, Mycroft. I know the whole spiel about patients being faced with the loss of their masculinity and trying to overcompensate, or just becoming depressed because something that made them a man is gone.” John’s stomach gurgled unpleasantly and all he wanted was for Mycroft to go so he could vomit in peace.  
   
Instead of leaving, Mycroft moved closer to the bed and picked up the wastebasket they had been using for vomit. He held it close to the edge of the bed, expectantly. John shook his head but steadfastly refused to open his mouth. Mycroft didn’t move the wastebasket away, but he did continue talking.  
   
“It wasn’t necessarily that. I was comfortable in my masculinity and felt that removing a testicle would not negatively affect that. After all, I was already in a committed relationship that I knew would last for the rest of my life and Gregory was rather unfazed by my loss. We had already decided that we didn’t want children, but the way we would have had to conceive any potential offspring would not have been affected. It made no sense to mourn something that was killing me. It was the way that I feared it would impact our sex life and other normal bodily functions that scared me. I won’t scar you with the details, but long-term impacts of such therapies and surgeries are similar for men who have prostate and testicular cancer. I know almost everything that you’re afraid of, John, because I went through the same thing. If, heaven forbid, this round of radiation is unsuccessful and you must have surgery to remove some of or your entire prostate, you should know that there is a man in your kitchen making you tea who will love you even if there are negative impacts on your urinary tract, your bowels, or your sex life. Now are you going to keep fighting your body or are you going to vomit, because holding it in is much worse than letting it out?”  
   
With that, John swallowed his pride and threw up into the wastebasket Mycroft was holding. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock entering the room but hovering by the door.  
   
When he finished and Mycroft had handed him a glass of water, John asked, “Do you ever worry that it isn’t enough for him? That you know that physically you can’t do anything better but you know you used to be able to and you wish you could do more?”  
   
Mycroft pursed his lips, as if this were getting more personal than he wanted. Eventually, his shoulders sagged a bit and he said, “Yes. It isn’t constant anymore, but there are times were that worry is there, just niggling at the back of my head. But he always reassures me that even though we were once capable of more in that aspect, that he’s happy with what we have and that we make up for those losses in other ways. I am incredibly fortunate to have a partner who is capable of that. You are too.”  
   
“Thank you, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s tone was tinged with sarcasm, but John knew that he meant it in a more sincere way even if he would never admit it. “If you could please collect your husband and leave us in peace, that would be just smashing.”  
   
For the first time, John noticed Lestrade standing in the doorway behind Sherlock. He gave a small wave. “John, mate. You keep ignoring my calls and texts and this berk keeps sending me away every time I try to come over. Just wanted to check in. You look like shit.”  
   
John snorted, thankful for the honesty. “Thanks. Next time he sends you away, just barge past. I don’t mind. I just don’t really know what to say to people right now.”  
   
“That’s fine. Just give me a shout if you need anything.” Lestrade pushed past Sherlock and touched Mycroft’s elbow softly. “Come on. John’s exhausted and Sherlock is looking like he’s about to pry open whatever floorboard John’s tried to hide his gun under and shoot us.” He gave John’s knee a pat through the blankets and left. Mycroft looked as if he was going to try to stay, but John gave him a minute shake of his head.  
   
“Thanks, Mycroft. For the talk and catching my vomit and the cars to take us to the hospital. They’ve all been much appreciated.”  
   
“Of course.” Mycroft stood and straightened his suit. He reached for his umbrella and said, “Please be in touch if you are in need of anything.”  
   
John and Sherlock waited for all of the doors to close and for their car to pull away from under the window before either of them spoke.  
   
“I’ll just clean that out for you,” Sherlock said tentatively as he reached for the wastebasket. “I wouldn’t want the smell of it to make you ill again.”  
   
“Hm. Right.” John shuffled further under the covers and watched as Sherlock gingerly picked up the wastebasket. He heard the sound of it being rinsed out and then the toilet flushing before he smelled the disinfectant Sherlock used to keep it clean. John thought more clearly than he had about what he and Sherlock would lose if he had to have this surgery, and a few hormone-driven tears trickled down his cheeks.  
   
When Sherlock got back into the room, he heard John gulping and trying to sniffle soft enough to go undetected, but it was obvious that he was crying. Not much, but the tears and the emotion were still there. He approached the bed slowly, as if he were confronting a scared animal. When he sat down and pushed a bit of hair back from John’s forehead, John began to sob a bit harder.  
   
“I’m so sorry I’ve been such a tit,” he gulped.  
   
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffed. “Do you really think that I only keep you around for sex? Honestly, John, your sexual prowess may be grand, but there are so many things I valued you for before I added your penis as a qualifier for why I love you.”  
   
“Sherlock, with this surgery we probably won’t have sex the way we’ve always had it in the past. The loss of my sexual identity scares me, but losing you scares me even more than that does. What if when this is all said and done you get bored because we aren’t able to experiment like that anymore?”  
   
“Then I’ll design new experiments. We’ll think of it as a new case. We’ll work and read signals from each other until we solve it. It will be just like we are now.” John opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock put a finger in front of his mouth, shushing him. “It won’t be easy, but when have we ever taken the easy route? Everything will be fine, John. Trust me.”  
   
John Watson was not a man of faith in the traditional sense, but when Sherlock Holmes told him to trust what he was saying, he took it as gospel and saw no reason to argue with him in spite of the reservations he had.  
 

 

* * *

   
   
Despite their best efforts and the grueling treatments, the tumor did not shrink. The tumor grew microscopically. John wanted to curl into a ball and scream until he went hoarse, but sudden movements upset his stomach and one look at Sherlock put paid to those plans. Sherlock, who had been a solid support system through this ordeal, looked terrified. Taking one look at him, John squared his shoulders and asked, “When can we do the surgery?”

  
 

* * *

  
   
The fuzzy feeling in his mouth and the heaviness of his whole body post-anesthetic was a sensation that was all too familiar to John, and in his drug-addled brain he promised himself that he wouldn’t get into any other dangerous situations that would land him here. He stirred, and he felt a hand squeeze his. Sherlock was keeping vigil by his bed. He opened his eyes weakly and started at his partner.  
   
Sherlock smiled sadly. “It’s done. Everything went just as planned.”  
   
Just as planned. John wracked his brain for what he could be talking about, and seeing the sad expression Sherlock had managed to confine to his eyes, everything came rushing back to him accompanied by a sensation that his drugged mind could only describe as _whoosh_. Just as planned. Just as planned. Just as planned.  
   
“John,” Sherlock sighed, climbing into bed beside him and wiping tears he hadn’t realized were there away from his cheeks. “We’re going to get through this.”  
   
John sobbed. He sobbed into Sherlock until he couldn’t breathe and he became hysterical. He sobbed until the nurse came in and gave him a sedative. As he fell back to sleep, he stared at Sherlock and took in his sad expression, and John couldn’t tell if he was crying because this ordeal was done or he was mourning what they had just lost.  
 

 

* * *

  
   
Everything hurt. Sitting up hurt because they had cut into his perineum to remove his prostate (when his surgeon had explained the whole surgery to them John could have sworn Sherlock went a bit misty there – he loved to tease John by stroking him softly there). Standing hurt for the same reason. Walking – God walking was the worst. He had tried briefly and felt like he was being split in two. Everything just fucking hurt.  
   
Sherlock bore his temper with forced smiles and soothing kisses and thumbs stroking along John’s temple. John wanted to hate him but try as he might he couldn’t muster up that emotion.  
   
The strangest part of his hospital stay was waking up to find Mycroft sitting at his bedside at one point in his recovery. Sherlock was snoring softly in the chair on the other side of the bed, his head resting on the lumpy mattress and holding tight to John’s hand. Mycroft just looked down at him more sympathetically than anything for close to five minutes without either of them exchanging a word. Finally, he stood and reached over not to touch John, but to stoke a few wayward ringlets from Sherlock’s forehead before collecting his umbrella and leaving the room.  
   
If Sherlock hadn’t looked so agitated and angry at the chair across the bed when he finally woke, John would have sworn that the painkillers had been giving him bizarre dreams.  
 

 

* * *

  
   
If everything hurt in the hospital, going home was worse.  
   
When they had decided to go ahead with the prostatectomy, John figured the recovery would be similar to when he was shot. The pain would probably be different, and he would most likely be on his feet faster than he was after being shot. He expected it would actually hurt less than when he was shot. He was right about that, which he wasn’t complaining about.  
   
When he had been shot, he had been taken to a military hospital and hadn’t seen any of his friends or family while he was recovering. It wasn’t a familiar environment, so even though he felt like he was confined to his bed and he hated that, there really was nowhere for him to go.  
   
When he was discharged from the hospital and went home with Sherlock to 221B, John was overwhelmed by a sense of needing to be useful. Things needed to be done. This wasn’t a facility where people were paid to take care of things, and pigs would fly before Sherlock would lift a finger to do most of the shit he needed to get done. John had things to do – to clean, to fold, to pay for, to cook, to make sure Sherlock didn’t accidentally singe off his eyebrows again – and that damn surgery and the different recovery exercises that he was doing to get more mobile as well as his more embarrassing and discouraging penile rehabilitation exercises were keeping him from his tasks.  
   
He shouted at Sherlock fairly regularly, and Sherlock bore his miserable temper better than he had at the hospital. He protested as Sherlock checked the incision to make sure it hadn’t become infected and suffered through Sherlock checking to see if he had fucking wiped himself properly after one of the most painful bathroom trips he had ever taken.  
   
At night, John slept with a pillow between his knees and one supporting his backside. He cocooned himself under all of the blankets available to him so Sherlock couldn’t touch him. It was easier, he decided, to wallow in his pain alone as much as he could so he would stop being such a bastard to the man who had given up so much of who he was to take care of John over the last several months. It just made him feel more alone and miserable, and when he woke up in the middle of the night and saw Sherlock huddled on the other edge of the bed rather than as close to him as he could possibly get with the barriers John had erected, John felt as if there was a great canyon between them that prevented him from reaching out to Sherlock rather than the inches that actually stretched between them.  
 

 

* * *

 

Everything came to a head two months after the surgery.

There had been a noticeable distance growing between the two of them since John's recovery had started. There were no more easy touches at home and neither of them knew how to fix it.

John was still fairly weak from treatments. He was working with a physiotherapist to build up his muscle strength again, but he was nowhere near the fitness level he was at before his diagnosis. So when he tried to lift a somewhat heavy box of books from the couch so he have a lie down and promptly dropped it, Sherlock came rushing in from the kitchen.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked frantically. "Did you damage your back? Or did anything fall on you?" He began to run his hands all over John to check for injuries. It was suffocating.

"No!" John jerked back from his husband. "Jesus, Sherlock, I'm fine. It was just heavier than I'm accustomed to lifting. I don't need mothering, so stop fucking mollycoddling me!"

"I have not been mollycoddling you, John, because you won't let me!" Sherlock shot back.

"Really, because I haven't been alone for more than an hour since I got home from the hospital. You've been hovering and it's driving me mad!"

"If I'm hovering it's because I'm worried about you. You've been worrying me and I just want to make sure you're okay."

"I'm fine Sherlock. Absolutely fine. I'm a grown man. I can take care of myself without you butting in all the time."

"I've gotten that message, John. You haven't let me touch you in months." He paused and swallowed before saying in an unnatural fit of sentiment, "I miss how we were."

"Well how we were is not going to be how we will be in the future since I can't get hard anymore. Hope you liked a sexless existence before we met, Sherlock, because apparently that's how you're going to spend whatever time you have left with me," John shouted.

"Are you implying that I would end our relationship over sex?"

"I'm implying you'll get bored, because that's what you do. You get bored and then it's only a matter of time before you go out and get fucked by someone who can get hard enough to stick their cock in you, or you'll just leave again without a word."

"How can you say that?" Sherlock shot back.

"I don't know, Sherlock. You left me for three years before. Who's to say you won't leave me forever?"

John knew that he was going too far at that point. As soon as he said it, he regretted it. Sherlock's face looked incredibly hurt for a split second, before a wall dropped down that he hadn't used with John in years.

"I did that because I love you John. You know that. If I pretended to be dead to keep you safe, why would you doubt my fidelity when you're recovering from an illness where I could have lost you?"

Without another word, Sherlock snatched his coat and scarf from the coat rack and headed out the door.

Shit. John took a few deep breaths and replayed the conversation. Sherlock was trying to help. He knew that. It just chafed that he wasn't as independent as he had once been. When he was independent, he cherished the infrequent occasions when Sherlock was clingy and coddled him.

He sat gently on the couch and scrubbed roughly at his eyes. He pulled out his phone and sent off a text to Greg.

_Had a fight with S. Keep an eye out for him?_

 

It was only a few minutes before he got a reply. _Got it mate. Alright?_

John thought about lying, but he decided against it. _No. I fucked up. Just keep an eye on him for me please._

 

* * *

 

Before Lestrade, Sherlock wouldn't have hesitated to break into his brother's home. The additional security made him revel in the challenge, and Mycroft was always able to identify weak spots after another successful break in. Since his brother had gotten married, he wasn't allowed to do that anymore because it made Lestrade angry. He had ignored that until he got married. One night John and Lestrade had gotten drunk together and Lestrade had grumbled about it to John, so when John came home he asked him to stop while licking him open.

Lestrade seemed unsurprised when he opened the door. John must have phoned, knowing he would go there. "How's it going, mate?"

"John and I have had an argument. I will be staying in your guest bedroom until further notice," he stated with confidence he didn't feel.

"'Course," Lestrade said gently. He moved aside so Sherlock could come in. Looking at his lack of luggage, he remarked, "Left in a hurry?"

Sherlock's answering scowl was enough to stop that line of questioning, and Lestrade raised his hands in surrender.

"You know where everything is. You can stay in the blue room," Lestrade offered. "You're going to eat while you're here, so I expect you down here in three hours ready to eat. No experiments while you're up there."

Sherlock scowled and chose to push past Lestrade and walk upstairs rather than respond. He chuckled and pulled out his phone to make a call.

"Gregory," Mycroft answered warmly. "What can I do for you?"

"Nothing, gorgeous," he responded. "Giving you a heads up that your baby brother is here. He's rowed with John, not sure what about."

"I see." Lestrade could practically hear Mycroft's lips pursing.

"Don't you go over there, Mycroft Holmes. It could have been Sherlock's fault."

"In any other situation, my dear, I would concur, but we've been through this before. It was never your fault when we argued after my surgery."

"Regardless, you don't go over there. That man has been through enough. Wait for a better time."

Mycroft paused significantly. "Fine. I shall return home directly after work."

"You're a very good man," Lestrade said with an eye roll that he was certain Mycroft could hear. "I'll see you in a few hours."  
 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock walked downstairs to find his brother enthusiastically greeting his Detective Inspector in their foyer.

"For God's sake, will you two behave like adults?"

Mycroft pulled back. "At last check, brother mine, this is our home, not yours."

"At last check, I'm your guest. Aren't you supposed to keep me comfortable?"

"Oh yes. Comfort. Shouldn't you be up in your room, comfortably avoiding us and our tedious company?"

"I would, but your husband ordered me downstairs to eat and no doubt talk about my feelings," he sighed, letting them know how put upon he felt.

"Shite, Sherlock, I don't want to know about your feelings," Lestrade scoffed.

"Well, now that we've settled that, I believe you graced us with your presence so we could all eat together," Mycroft simpered, pulling away from Lestrade. "I'll be down in just a few minutes."

When they were alone, Lestrade turned to Sherlock, patted his shoulder, and said, "I do actually care about how you feel, mate. Don't forget that I've been in your position before. The offer is there."

Sherlock shook Lestrade off. "I'm fine."

"Right. 'Course you are. Just know he'll get back to normal soon enough. You just have to give him time. Now come in and help me get things ready for tea."  
 

 

* * *

 

John fiddled a bit with his phone, trying to decide whether to ask for Sherlock updates. Greg had texted him several hours earlier letting him know that Sherlock had arrived and was being fed. He knew that Greg would likely text him back to say that he should ask Sherlock himself, but that wasn't something he felt he could do right then. After fifteen minutes of agonizing over it, he quickly composed a text and sent it.

_How is he?_   
  


 

* * *

 

 

Across town, Greg's phone buzzed on the table, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"If he's that worried he should ask me himself," he offered in a clipped voice.

"Maybe he doesn't think you'll respond to him," Lestrade answered as he slipped his phone into his pocket without answering the text.

"I didn't say I would respond," Sherlock shot back.

"Then don't criticize him texting me to ask after your wellbeing!"

"Gregory," Mycroft interjected gently, covering his hand on the table.

Lestrade shot him an angry look for a second before registering the pinched look on his husband's face. They had been through this before, and Lestrade knew that Sherlock didn't need the added stress from a fight. He turned his hand over and gave Mycroft's a squeeze to let him know they were alright. "Don't worry, mate. If you don't want me to text him back, I'll just tell him I don't think I should."

Sherlock squirmed a bit and said, "You can tell him a bit. He'll worry and I don't want him to. It isn't good for him right now. He doesn't need more stress while he's recovering."

"Right then." Lestrade retrieved his phone and tapped out a quick reply.  
 

* * *

 

_He's doing okay. We're making sure that he eats and will do our best to make sure he sleeps. I don't think he'd like it if I told you any more though._

John's heart sank. This was what he was afraid of. He took a shaky breath and tried to banish the hurt feeling he felt at Sherlock's caginess. The fight was his fault, but figuring out Sherlock's feelings was hard enough without out him completely closing off.

_That's fine, mate. Just wanted to make sure things were okay._

After he sent the text, John buried his face in his hands and blew out a hard breath. He and Sherlock had had some spectacular fights in the past, but he knew that whoever had stormed out would come back and they would work things out after cooling down. For the first time in their relationship, he wasn't sure if that would happen.

 

* * *

 

That night, Lestrade and Mycroft fucked ferally. It was the type of life affirming sex they only had after either of them had a close call, filled with gasps and moans and grunts of pleasure. They were covered in bruises and scrapes where they had bitten down and run their nails against the other's skin. They came within thirty seconds of each other, Mycroft with a high-pitched tenor cry and Lestrade with hard grunts as his hips snapped into Mycroft. After they had come down and cleaned each other off, Lestrade straddled Mycroft's stomach, folded himself over his torso, and put his ear over his husband's chest to hear the steady thumping of his heartbeat. He wrapped one arm under the arch of Mycroft's back and placed the other on his chest. Mycroft wrapped hand around the back of Lestrade's neck and scratched lightly at the scruff there. With his other hand, he grabbed Lestrade's hand and brought it to his lips, kissing each finger and then lacing their fingers together. They stayed like that until Lestrade began to nod off to the comforting noise of Mycroft's heart and he rolled them to the side so they were more comfortable but still touching.

 

* * *

 

Both men moved listlessly around their rooms for the next three days. Both considered texting the other, but in the end they didn't and they both agonized over it.

On the fourth day, Mycroft stormed into his brother's room. Sherlock hadn't left the bed in over a day.

"Brother mine, if you aren't going to speak with him, then I will," he hissed, throwing open the curtains.

"He doesn't want me there, Mycroft," Sherlock groaned in response. "He wants space, and for once I intend to give that to him."

"How can you, with your vast intelligence, look me in the eyes and tell me truthfully that you don't think he just wanted a bit of space, not the distance between the two of you that you currently have?"

"I know how he thinks," Sherlock grumbled, turning over to bury his face in his pillow and pulling the covers up over his head again.

Mycroft shook his head and sat heavily on the side of the bed. "When I was recovering from my surgery, do you remember how unhappy I was? I still pushed Greg away in spite of that unhappiness. I needed him more than anything, and even knowing that I pushed him away. Don't let John do that to you. You have an hour to get ready or I will go to your flat on my own and will talk sense into your husband on my own."

 

* * *

 

As Mycroft was bullying his brother out of bed, his husband was trying a softer approach with John. He let himself in with the key he had lifted from Sherlock's coat pocket earlier in the hopes that he wouldn't get out of bed for another few hours. When he let himself in the front door, Mrs. Hudson came scuttling out of her flat looking hopeful, then somewhat disappointed.

"Oh, Inspector! I thought you might be Sherlock," she sighed. "He's been in a right state for the last few days. He barely makes a sound. It's like when... well. It's like the last time he left."

"They're idiots, aren't they?" Lestrade said with a shake of his head. "I'll do my best to knock some sense into him."

"I hope you do. Lord knows I'm not doing anything to help." With a cluck she turned and went back into her flat.

Lestrade found John on the couch wrapped up in Sherlock's favorite blue dressing gown.

"You're a little short for that to fit properly," he teased gently.

"How is he doing?" John asked, ignoring the jibe at his height and pulling the robe tighter around his body.

"Not so hot." He pulled the coffee table closer to John and sat on it so he was close to his face. "How are you feeling?"

"Like a tit, and the hormones are making it worse. I was such a dick."

"You were, but it doesn't mean that you can't fix that."

John still wasn't meeting his eyes. "I was so horrible to him, Greg."

"It happens." When John didn't respond, Lestrade took a deep breath and said, "Mycroft tossed me out after his surgery. We had a spectacular row after trying to have sex again and he told me to get out. Sherlock was living in this shitty little flat at the time, but he'd moved in with us to help out. I was starkers and he barely gave me time to get my pants on and grab a key from Sherlock to his place. We didn't speak for close to a week."

"Did he tell you that you were suffocating him?" John asked, his tone accusatory of no one but himself.

"Sort of. We hadn't had sex before he started treatments and wanted to try again, and he wasn't expecting to experience one of the side effects of having surgery down there. So when he started pissing while I touched him, he freaked out. I'll spare you the details, but essentially I tried to tell him that it was fine and tried to clean him up a bit, and he started shouting about how he wasn't helpless and I should stop treating him as if he were. I didn't stop trying to help him and he snapped and told me to get out of the house. So I grabbed keys from Sherlock and crashed in his flat until Mycroft was ready to see me again."

"How did you know he was?"

"Sherlock. He was a bloody menace, let me tell you. He was so protective of Mycroft and kept snapping at me for his brother's misery. But at the same time he was giving Mycroft hell about throwing me out because I was taking care of him." Lestrade shook his head. "He's a strange one."

John sighed. "I still don't know what to do."

"You need to go to him, mate. He's a scared animal right now. He doesn't want to be away from you, but he doesn't think he can be near you because he doesn't think you want him around. I let Mycroft come to me because I didn't want to smother him, but at the same time I was scared to mess things up more. You need to go apologize to him, because in his mind you haven't done anything wrong. You need to break the ice, because then he can apologize for making you uncomfortable."

"He doesn't need to apologize, Greg. He didn't do anything wrong," John stressed.

"The put some clothes on and come over and tell him that." Lestrade gave John a manly clap on the shoulder and stood. Offering a hand, he said, "Come on. Let's go over."

John accepted the outstretched hand and pulled himself upright. "Thanks, mate."

Lestrade nodded sharply. "Go change and we can go fix this."

As John walked into the bedroom, Lestrade pulled out his phone and fired off a quick text to Mycroft.

_Change of plans. John is coming over. xx_

 

* * *

 

They walked through the foyer just as Sherlock descended the stairs with Mycroft on his heels. John's breath caught in his throat. They had only been apart for a few days, but Sherlock was pale and looked more gaunt than he normally did. His husband slowed to a stop when they locked eyes. "John," he whispered almost reverently.

"Hi, Sherlock," John said with a small smile. "Can we talk?"

Sherlock looked lost. He turned around to look at his brother, who answered, "There is a spare office open down at the end of this hallway. You won't be disturbed there."

"Thank you," John replied. He locked eyes with Sherlock again and gestured slightly with his head. Sherlock walked down towards him, looking as if he wanted to run down but nerves were holding him back. John waited to move until they were standing next to each other and they could walk together, rather than one following the other.

Once they were locked in the room, neither of them knew what to do. They stood staring at each other for a long moment before John rolled his shoulders and said, "You look tired."

Sherlock gave a little half shrug. "I don't sleep well when you aren't there with me."

"Hm," John hummed tersely. "That's, uh, that's rather sweet or you, Sherlock. Have you been good otherwise?"

"Not particularly," he admitted after a pause.

"I'm sorry to hear that." John looked down and scratched the scruff on his neck and said, "I wanted to come over here and say that I'm sorry. For snapping at you and saying all of those awful things. It was wrong of me. You've been so fantastic since I got sick and you didn't deserve to be treated like that."

Sherlock blinked at him. "John, I feel I should be the one-"

"No!" John interrupted. "I'm sorry, but you don't need to finish that sentence. I was in the wrong. You weren't. Stop thinking you were."

Sherlock slumped. "I just want to help you, John. I'm not accustomed to this and don't know how to distinguish what is a good level of being helpful and when I'm, as you put it, coddling you or suffocating you. All I want is to be able to take care of you."

"I understand that. I just need to be somewhat independent or I'll go nuts. I feel trapped when I don't have that. Could we maybe come up with a way to signal when it isn't a good time for that?" John suggested.

"I suppose."

John was nearly satisfied, but Sherlock continued to shift uncomfortably. "What else is on your mind?"

"You don't touch me anymore," Sherlock admitted quietly. "I thought that you were perhaps going to leave me because we don't touch at all anymore and you brought up when I was away."

If he hadn't felt like a dick already, John definitely felt like one then. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I really am. You just have to understand that since the surgery I've been worried about what's going to happen to us as a couple. Things are really different now, and I'm worried I won't be interesting enough for you now that I'm damaged. It was easier to avoid contact than watch the disappointment on your face, though I can see now that was wrong."

"How could you say I don't find you interesting anymore?" Sherlock asked, aghast. "You shouldn't put yourself down like that, John. If anything, I find you more interesting now. There are so many new things about your body to explore now. I have so much to discover. I could have spent a lifetime searching before, and now I'll never figure everything that I want to know out."

John, whose hormones were still out of whack from the supplements he was taking as his body adjusted to missing certain hormones, felt his eyes wet and saw his vision blur. "Oh Sherlock. That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me. I'm so sorry."

"I missed you, John," Sherlock said, his voice somewhat pinched. John could see him open his arms and he threw himself into the warmth of Sherlock's body. He locked his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and buried his face in his neck while Sherlock kissed his forehead.

"Next time we fight, let's work it out then rather than staying apart for a few days," John sighed.

"I concur," Sherlock returned between kisses.

They stood there just holding each other for several minutes before John collected himself and tipped his face up so they could exchange a proper kiss for the first time in days. They clung to each other and moved until the backs of Sherlock's legs were against the desk in the room. Though he was normally able to control his body's responses, it had been so long since they had touched each other like this that Sherlock was already stiff in his trousers while John was still soft.

"Let me," he murmured, reaching down towards John's crotch.

John caught his wrists and shook his head. "It's no use, Sherlock. I can't really get a response anymore. Hopefully it's just for a few more months."

Sherlock leaned down and kissed John gently. "Even if it's longer, I'll keep trying. If it's forever, I'll find other ways to make you feel good. I promise."

John's heart lurched. "God, I love you," he breathed. "Let me suck you. Please love, let me make you feel good." He waited for Sherlock's nod before he sank to his knees.

 

* * *

 

Things weren't easy. They had been great at communicating nonverbally, through looks and gestures, before. This new territory meant actually talking about their feelings, which neither of them were particularly keen on doing. Nonetheless, they made an effort to mention if they were feeling vulnerable or raw or horny so they could avoid conflicts like the one that they referred to as The Fight.

They began experimenting a few weeks after their reconciliation with different ways to bring both of them some sort of pleasure. Sherlock took to the internet again, and though they dismissed most of the ideas outright, they tried some. They weren't a fan of the penis pump because John used those in his rehab exercises, and he went soft as soon as he released it. The one time Sherlock pulled out an old dildo, John was reminded that he would never feel the unique pleasure of something scraping against his prostate and the mood was soured.

The vibrator was the biggest hit. Sherlock purchased a new one so there would be no prior associations with it. It was long, slim, and silver. The vibrations ranged from mild to so intense that the arm holding it was shaking violently. Starting with the lowest level of stimulation, Sherlock gently ran it over the tip of John's penis, then up and down the vein on the underside. John didn't get hard, but when Sherlock looked up his face was contorted in pleasure and he gulped, "Don't stop." Sherlock continued the motions and turned up the speed gradually until John was left a gasping mess and had a dry orgasm.

Once that had happened, things were less strained between them. John was less insecure about Sherlock losing interest, and Sherlock was less concerned about John's mental wellbeing.

It took John several months to regain his ability to develop and keep an erection. The first time it happened, Sherlock had buried his face in John's crotch and didn't leave until John had managed a dry orgasm. Erections weren't always present, and they learned to work with that. They stopped having penetrative sex for the most part. John no longer bottomed because he missed the sensation of Sherlock teasing his prostate when he opened him up and didn't want to do without the occasional brush of Sherlock's cock against it. John couldn't usually get and keep and erection for long enough to enter Sherlock, so he swallowed his pride and asked his doctor for some pills he had prescribed countless times before. He didn't like to take them often, but when Sherlock wanted to be fucked he did. For the most part, they just experimented with rubbing against each other and other positions that didn't involve penetration. Sherlock had a spreadsheet detailing both of their responses, which was divine.

One morning, after John had clapped his legs together and Sherlock had thrust in between them until he could no longer stay silent, Sherlock was bent over his microscope likely looking at something off-putting. John, who was so full of love for that man, was overcome by how much he had sacrificed for him and how thankful he was to have Sherlock in his life. He walked up behind Sherlock and folded himself around his back, kissing the nape of his neck.

"John?" Sherlock asked, puzzled about the display of affection. He moved one of his hands over John's and stoked the skin on the top of his hand.

"Thank you," John breathed in his ear. "Thank you thank you thank you." He squeezed Sherlock tightly and pressed his forehead into Sherlock's neck. "For being there. For being you."

Sherlock turned on the stool he was sitting on so John was standing between his legs and they could embrace properly. With a small kiss to the tip of John's nose, Sherlock whispered, "Always," before burrowing into the curve of John's neck.

**Author's Note:**

> Promised myself in July that I would get this up before the new year. Last minute is better than never.
> 
> Comments and concrit are welcome. The last 1500 words or so were written on a night train through an unspecified Central European country so it hasn't been edited as thoroughly as I normally would - if there are glaring spelling and grammar errors I would appreciate people gently pointing them out. x


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